


The Crimson Mists

by LovelyGoth008



Category: Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-09 09:42:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19885543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyGoth008/pseuds/LovelyGoth008
Summary: Adventurers find themselves in the mysterious and grim land of Barovia, a place surrounded by a deadly mist and ruled by a mysterious lord. The adventurers work to solve the mystery of the mists, along with finding the cause of the disappearances of women all over the land.





	1. PROLOGUE

**PROLOGUE**

_"Whether it was by bad luck or fate's hands that you were all brought here, neither I nor the cards would know, but seeing as you are here, I may as well look into what the future holds for you... if you manage to survive._

_The darkness looms menacingly above you, but all hope is not lost. As there is shadow, so there is light. It is the light that you must seek._

_Seek a holy symbol of great hope, but you must be willing to drown in the depths of evil to retrieve it._

_Seek a weapon of vengeance, a sword of sunlight so bright, the beast will falter before its radiance. Look to the place where sickness and madness were born._

_Knowledge is a weapon most useful, as it never dulls nor chips. Find the grave of the ancient dead, where an evil tree has taken root. Listen to the caws of the ravens, for they will help you find your way._

_You are not alone in this fight, adventurers. Seek the one known as 'the lesser', but let not his name fool you, for he has a soul of remarkable power._

_Alas, as you have the tools, you still know not who you are up against. I can see that the enemy is an entity whose powers transcend you and I, beyond mortality... He makes his domain within the resting place of the man he envied above all..._

_Be ready, outsiders. This is a land where eyes and ears are everywhere. Where honeyed tongues belie venomous spites, and sanctity gives way to evil. Hold strong, and you may yet survive to escape the mists, and save more than one life..."_


	2. Trapped in the Mists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three adventurers who were headed to their next job find themselves in a land surrounded by an eerie ring of fog.

_"Barovia is a land that once had life... but the darkness took it all away. It is diseased, a shell of its former self. Controlled by evil whose power is beyond mortality."_

* * *

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure you were reading the map upside down."

"No, I was reading it right-side up!"

"We wouldn't be in this mess if I was reading the map!"

"Me no read map! Me no good!"

The young cleric had a point. Had she been the one reading the map, they would have already found themselves headed to Waterdeep, but with the constant arguing and map-grabbing, she and her fellow adventurers found themselves in a forest blanketed by fog. It was thicker than anything they had ever seen, and it was making it difficult for them to find their way around. 

"Is there even a town here?" the dark elf monk asked. She was a tall lady, with a slightly muscular build. Her silvery white hair was tied back into a bun, and she wore a sleeveless red top, black pants, and foot wraps. "I can barely make anything out, and it's as if the fog is trying to kill us." The cleric cast a spell which tried to clear away the fog but to no avail. As tall as the dark elf was, the cleric stood to her hip. She was a gnome from Elturgard, her auburn hair rolling down her shoulder. She wore the cleric's garbs: a white robe with golden trimmings, and a mace hung from her waist. 

"This fog isn't clearing up." said the cleric. "We are officially lost. Yep, legit lost."

"Baahh!" cried the half-orc with them. The cleric and the monk met the half-orc during one of their travels to uncover the legacy of the Tharkiir, and after battling a dracolich, he earned the mantle of Tharkiir. He was tall, probably a foot and a half taller than the monk, and he wore his dark hair in the traditional orcish war braids complete with colorful beads. He wore no armor, save for a bearskin loincloth, and he had two battle-axes on his back. "Me no see! Fog too thick!"

"We get it!" the cleric retorted. She was concerned about the nature of the fog, as her senses had told her that it was manipulated by a very powerful being. "We're going 'round in circles and now we're probably going to die in this forest!"

"Hush now, I hear something..." the monk said, her long ears twitching at the sound of branches being broken. She heard steps, two... three..., and whatever it was, it was big.

Then a howl broke their reverie. Out of the fog jumped four large dire wolves. They were larger than any dire wolf, and their fur was jet-black like shadow. There was something unsettling about how vicious they looked, their red eyes glowing with bloodlust and their jowls dripping in hunger. They were going to tear these outsiders apart.

* * *

"Aaargh! Fight wolves! Me need new skin!" the half-orc said, drawing out his axes. The cleric stood back, mace at the ready. The monk dropped to a fighting stance, her eyes trained at all four wolves. One of the wolves jumped towards the half-orc, who swiftly caught and killed it with one mighty swing of his axe. Blood and entrails littered the earth, but it did not deter the three remaining wolves. Two of them jumped towards the monk, and while one of them managed to graze her arm with its teeth, it did not survive to attack once more because its neck got broken. The other wolf tried to bite the monk's arm off, only to have a well-placed palm strike to the midsection incapacitate it. The killing blow came in the form of the monk smashing the wolf's skull with her fist. Only the alpha remained, and it too, jumped up to attack the cleric, only to get caught with a mace to the jaw. It did not faze the large dire wolf though, and it went for another bite. The cleric nimbly dodged the attack while fumbling for something in the pockets of her robe.

"Where is it, where is it..." she muttered. Then, with a jubilant "Aha!", she drew out a red gem and threw it at the alpha, immolating it until nothing but ashes remained.

"I could use some healing magic here..." the monk called out.

"Lick the wound until it closes." the cleric replied back with some snark as she looked the map. She was dumbfounded, as the entire landmass of the Sword Coast was replaced by a single piece of land with the name **BAROVIA** on it. "This place just messed up my map! Now how the heck are we ever getting out of here?"

"Less talk, more walk!" the half-orc said as he finally finished skinning one of the dire wolves. He was certainly happy with his handiwork as he donned the wolf skin cloak. 

"Like the orc said, I guess." the cleric said as she led the way, the half-orc and the monk following behind.

As they navigated their way around the foggy woods with nothing but instinct guiding them, a raven perched atop one of the dead trees intently watched their move. Its beady black eyes held a malicious glint as it flew away, disappearing into the fog.

* * *

The raven flew inside one of the windows of a large, ruined castle, and sat atop a pale hand which belonged to an aristocractic-looking man with jet-black hair and crimson eyes. He wore a magnificent fur cloak over red and black armor. "Our guests have arrived, have they not?" he said, stroking the bird's head gently. He then strapped a small roll of parchment on the raven's leg. "Take this to the Vistani. Everything begins." he said, and the raven flew away. He stood up from the throne he sat on and walked down a dark, ruined hallway. His powerful strides showed power and authority, and the undead creatures that acted as the keepers of the ruined castle made sure to hobble out of his way.

Finally, he was in his personal sanctum. It was one of the more restored areas of his castle. On the wall was a painting of a woman with auburn hair, emerald eyes, and tan skin. Her smile was bright and beautiful, and he knew why. Beside her was a man whose military medals and epaulets were a stark contrast to the light blue of his uniform. There were large gash marks on where his face should be. The mere sight of the man made him fly into a rage, sending a chair flying towards the wall, breaking into splinters. He ran his hands over the image of the woman, and looked up at her as an acolyte would towards a deity.

"Tatyana..." he said. "Ages we have been separated, and wrongfully so. Ages I have waited, but the darkness denies me. Now you are here... and nothing will stop me from having you."


	3. The Lesser's Plight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After what seemed to be forever, the three adventurers finally found a town amidst all the fog, but its people were just as hostile as the things that prowled the forest, save for one.

The cleric, half-orc barbarian, and the monk all walked blindly into the fog-wrapped forest. There were sounds of howling wolves and other...unnatural things, but they couldn't see where those were coming from, but it sounded far away, so they continued on their trail nevertheless.

Finally, they were able to find a dirt road with an old sign that said "Barovia", and "Svalich Road". The sign that read "Barovia" pointed to the end of the dirt road, while the "Svalich Road" sign pointed back to the forest. "Well, there's our town." the cleric said. "Best we get a move on, before it gets dark." "Sky so dark, no see the sun." the half-orc remarked as they walked quickly down the road. 

"True." the monk said. "The sun never seems to shine here, unless the weather is just unusually cloudy all the time."

* * *

The trio had finally arrived at the village, and it was a dark, grim place. There was no one outside, no children playing or people walking around. Most of the houses had boarded up their windows, and the only source of light came from the tavern near the center of town. Not too far was what seemed to be a castle, intimidating and grand, sitting atop a mountain overlooking the town and the forest. "Best head to the tavern. I'm starving." the monk said. "Ale and meat!" the half-orc added. The cleric shook her head as she once more led the party, the two following right behind.

The Blood of the Vine tavern was filled with people, presumably the villagers, huddled around the tables in quiet conversation. As soon as the door opened and the three newcomers stepped in, they were met with distasteful and hostile glances. 

"We don't accept strangers here." said one of the villagers. A group of men pulled out some daggers and short swords. It was clear that the villagers didn't take too kindly to strangers. 

"We mean you no harm." said the cleric. "We only need a room, some food, and drink."

"Perhaps you can lower your weapons, friends." the monk added. "We are not a violent lot. We are merely adventurers."

A man sitting at the far end of the tavern raised his head at the sound of the word "adventurers". Perhaps this was his only chance, but he had to draw the townsfolk away. Putting down his bottle, he stood up, albeit a bit unsteadily, and approached one of the villagers who held a dagger. 

"Now, now, Mishka, put that down." he said, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "They are adventurers. Looking for shelter. A place to be safe from the dangers of the outside world, much like we are."

"Yeah, but what if they loot us like some bandits?" the one known as Mishka said. 

"We're not bandits!" the cleric retorted, stamping her foot on the wooden floor angrily. "We're just traveling, and we shouldn't even be here! But no, we got lost, and got trapped in a weird fog, and now we're all here!"

"Baaahh!" the half-orc growled, silencing any mutterings. "Me want food and ale now! Me hungry from all fighting and walking!"

"Right you are then." one of the ladies behind the bar said, fetching three large mugs and filling them up with ale. "Three drinks on the house, apologies for the inconvenience." She set them on the table with a _thud_ as she ran back to the kitchen to get some food. The three adventurers sat down and the drunken man who talked to Mishka approached them. 

"You mentioned you were adventurers?" he said, to which all three nodded. 

"This may sound crazy," the drunk continued. "but I am need of your help. Come, let us talk at my table." He escorted the three to the farthest table at the corner of the inn, hidden by shadow. "My name is Ismark Inrovich."

"ISMARK THE LESSER, MORE LIKE!" a patron cried out, but Ismark paid no heed. The lady from behind the bar table quickly served them their food and drink and left to return to her post, watching them carefully. 

* * *

"Ismark the Lesser sure sounds like an insulting name." the monk said. "What made them call you that?"

"I live in my father's shadow." Ismark answered. "He is, or was, the burgomaster of this village. He has passed away now, but alas, my sister and I could not bury him properly."

"Why no bury? No graveyard?" the half-orc asked as he tore through a chicken leg. The cleric helped herself to some bread and milk while the monk continued to speak with Ismark. 

"Ever since..." Ismark continued, but this time his voice was much more quiet. "Ever since my father had passed, the attacks on our home became increasingly violent. My sister and I cannot leave without fear for our lives."

The drow monk looked puzzled. "Who is attacking your home? Have you caused great sorrow among these villagers?" she asked. 

"The undead." he answered. "Yes, you heard me correctly. Make of it what you will, say I'm insane, but it is true."

**"IT'S A HOPELESS ORDEAL, ISMARK!"**

**"YOU MADE HIM ANGRY, AND NOW YOU PAY THE PRICE!"**

**"LEAVE 'EM, THEY CAN'T HELP YOU! THEY'LL DIE BEFORE THEY CAN MAKE IT TO THE NEXT VILLAGE"**

The heckling from the patrons discouraged Ismark even more, and it was evident from his stooped shoulders and bowed head. "Please," he said. "you three are my only hope. We need to stave off the attack from my home and give my father a proper burial... before I take my sister to the next village, Vallaki." The cleric had just finished her meal and was curious about the conversation. "So, how come undead are attacking your place?" she asked. 

**"BECAUSE THE DEVIL'S BRIDE IS IN HIS HOUSE! HE DOESN'T WANT TO GIVE HER UP!"** a drunken villager roared out, earning a murderous glare from the gnome cleric. 

"You weren't asked." she said with a snarl. She then returned her attention to Ismark, who seemed to be intimidated by her. "Now, sorry about that --- what was I asking? Oh right, why are the undead attacking your house?"

"The undead are the servants of Count Strahd." Ismark answered. "They wish to take my sister Ireena. Ever since she caught the Count's eye during one event, he doggedly pursued her to the point that we had barricaded our house, thinking it would stave off his attacks. We were wrong." He closed his eyes, the image of his sister forming in his mind. 

"She was bitten by him, damning her to being a vampire when she succumbs to the corruption." he continued. "But if I take her to Vallaki, to the Church of Saint Andral, she could be saved. To get her away from here while burying my father, that is all I want. Please, I need your help. I am willing to pay anything." From his coat pocket, he produced a small sack of gold coins which was near bursting. "Here, upfront payment." he said, sliding the coin sack to the three adventurers. The half-orc's eyes widened at how much gold there was. "Me in. Me need money." he said. "Me Zemaraum." He extended a big hand, to which Ismark shook it. "You talk... rather strangely." he remarked. 

"Yes, he is half an orc, hence the lack of knowledge in Common tongue." the cleric said. "My name is Kestria." 

"You can call me Alestro." the drow monk said. "We will gladly take your request, Ismark Inrovich."

* * *

The female bartender was able to hear every word of the conversation. She quickly retreated to the kitchen, where a man wearing odd, colorful attire and had unkempt, shoulder-length hair tended the fire. "Arrigal, come quick!" she called in a hushed tone by the doorway. The man stood, dropping the stick he used to stoke the fireplace, and approached the woman. "What do you want, Sorvia? Can't you see I'm keeping the fire alive for Boris to cook with?" Boris was the cook of the tavern, whose food was remarked to be as bland as his personality. 

"This is important." the woman, Sorvia, said. "The adventurers, they have come to help Ismark. This means they will get Ireena out of town anytime today. Take your cart and ride to the castle. He must know, or he will have our blood." The man known as Arrigal understood the sense of urgency, and quickly left the kitchen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! I hope you enjoyed where the story is going so far. The artwork here doesn't belong to me, so credits to the owner! Amazing art!


End file.
